


A Reindeer and an Elf Walk into a Bar

by stardust_made



Category: Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Christmas, Crack, Crossover, Gen, Humor, Jealousy, Playing with, Ridiculous, fandom tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 13:26:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3069791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardust_made/pseuds/stardust_made
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"John looked pointedly down his shoes. Being pointy, they gave back as good as they got. He glared at Sherlock. “Really? You want to quibble over vocabulary? I’m an elf, Sherlock! A bloody elf!”</p><p>Jealousy and sarcasm flow freely at 221B Baker Street when half its population is taken over by magic, some handsome strangers including. No prior knowledge of 'Supernatural' is needed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Reindeer and an Elf Walk into a Bar

**Author's Note:**

> To all the fandom friends I've made over the past few years—I may not stop by over here very often or keep in touch, but you are all remembered and dear to me.

“I just want to know why I have to wear the hat,” John said for the third time.

Sherlock rolled his eyes without lifting his gaze from his laptop’s screen. “You do realize that saying ‘just’ implies that you’re fine with everything else?”

“I’m really not.” John looked pointedly down his shoes. Being pointy, they gave back as good as they got.

“Don’t say ‘I just want to know’, then.”

John glared at Sherlock. “Really? You want to quibble over vocabulary? I’m an elf, Sherlock! A bloody elf!”

“I can see that.”

“So I’m allowed to be a bit careless with my language. Believe me, it’s taking a lot to be careful with it!”

“But you really should be, dear.” Mrs Hudson showed up from the kitchen with a glass of milk and a plate of biscuits. “At my age it’s not very nice to—”

“Shut up, Mrs Hudson!” Sherlock and John said in unison.

“Oh!” Her hand shot to her mouth as her shoulders jumped, upset. It didn’t take long for them to relax. “You’re both stressed out,” Mrs Hudson said with a tone reserved for teething infants. “It’s understandable.”

“Understandable?” John let out a bitter giggle. “Understandable? None of this is understandable. I am an elf!”

“Oh God,” Sherlock groaned.

John’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, I’m sorry! Am I boring you with my complaints about _turning into a sodding Christmas creature?_ ”

“At least you’re human,” Lestrade said from the door. “Sort of.”

John nearly had a whiplash from turning around too quickly. He gaped at the sight in front of his eyes.

“You…You are…You are…”

“A reindeer. Yep.”

John felt his face contort in amazement. “How?” 

He thought he saw Lestrade’s neck straighten up then sort of fold down, in what must have been the reindeer equivalent of a shrug. “I don’t know. I woke up like this.” The pause that followed was loaded and directed at Mrs Hudson. “In your stables downstairs.”

“My what?” she exclaimed. “Don’t tell me that flat has turned into stables! Oh, now I’m never going to be able to rent it out.”

“Mrs Hudson, you weren’t able to rent it out anyway,” John reminded her, probably unkindly.

“But who’s going to clean it? I have enough to take care of as it is…” Mrs Hudson’s voice trailed off, trembling.

“Clea—” John spread his arms, unable to even finish his word. “Hello!” He indicated at himself. “Elf!”

Everyone ignored him. 

“You’ve got stable boys, actually,” Lestrade told Mrs Hudson. “Well, more like a boy and a girl.”

“I have?” Mrs Hudson didn’t look even half disturbed at the idea; more on the relieved side.

“Yes. Two…colleagues of mine. They’re busy shovelling all the…Erm.” Lestrade looked very much like he wanted to scratch his chin in embarrassment. On impulse John went to him. “Here,” he said, lightly scraping his nails under Lestrade’s jaw.

“Thanks.”

“If you’re quite done with the petting…” Sherlock spoke right by John’s ear, making him jump and step away from the reindeer.

“Right,” Sherlock said evenly. “So, Donovan and Anderson are shovelling manure.”

Lestrade nodded. It was an expansive gesture. “They don’t like it,” he added. John could tell he was trying to sound less gleeful. 

Sherlock’s lip curled. “I’m sure they don’t.” His gaze turned serious. “We are dealing with someone with a sense of humour. Scratch that—more like dry wit.” He took a breath to continue, then frowned at Lestrade. “How did you climb the stairs?” 

“I don’t know. I sort of just…did.” Lestrade shook his head as if chasing away a fly. “It wasn’t easy,” he added mournfully.

John thought of the sound of bells every time he as much as shuffled his feet and nodded in sympathy. 

“Once we’re done here, we’re going to the pub,” he told Lestrade.

“I can’t go to the pub like this,” Lestrade said. “Can you imagine the jokes? A reindeer and an elf walk into a pub…”

“We. Are. Going. To the pub.” John turned to Sherlock. “Besides, you’ll figure it out, right?” 

Sherlock avoided his eyes. 

“Sherlock?” John said slowly.

Sherlock walked back to his laptop. “I’m working on it.”

“Why don’t you boys have some biscuits and that milk?” Mrs. Hudson said. She looked at Lestrade, unsure. “Shall I pop downstairs and get you some hay, Inspector? Do reindeers eat hay?”

“No hay, thanks!” Lestrade hurried to tell her. “I’ll just…” He looked at the sofa, then at his four legs. “Keep standing over here.”

John’s heart went out to him. “You look very nice,” he told him. “Sort of festive.” 

“Thanks…I think,” Lestrade murmured. There was no missing the fact that he didn’t return the compliment. 

John sighed and walked to the mirror. His own reflection looked back at him, sadly unchanged since the last time he’d checked, some ten minutes ago. The ridiculous hat, the whole elf attire, but worst of all, the two round red spots on his cheeks. He found them extra offensive somehow. He slowly turned his face to one side then to the other and shook his head.

Suddenly, a thought occurred to him.

“Is it because I’m short?” 

“What?” Sherlock said from the table, not really paying attention.

“Maybe it’s because I’m short. That’s why I’m an elf.” John felt his jaw tighten. “That’s discrimination, that is.”

“Big picture, dear,” Mrs Hudson said soothingly, having showed up with another tray of biscuits and milk. 

“It’s easy for you to say,” he said, rueful. “You’re wearing your own clothes.”

Mrs Hudson’s face became decidedly evasive.

“Mrs Hudson?" John asked. "What is it?” Their landlady only cast a longing look in the direction of the kitchen.

Sherlock lifted his eyes at the lack of response. “What?” He prompted.

“It’s nothing really,” Mrs Hudson said. "I didn’t want to bother you, especially with…” She tried to indicate to Lestrade discreetly. “I’ve been having these urges...”

“What urges?” John said suspiciously.

“To bake. And pour milk into glasses.”

Silence followed her words.

“That’s…not that unusual, is it?” John finally asked the room at large.

“Well, it is, John,” Mrs Hudson replied. “Now that I’ve baked a hundred biscuits.”

John’s jaw dropped. “A hundred—Why?”

“Because I need to feed them.”

“Feed who?” Sherlock asked, fascinated.

“The elves,” Mrs Hudson squeaked and then the words rushed out of her. “I need to feed the elves. They need to eat their milk and biscuits and keep working on wrapping the gifts.”

John boggled at Mrs. Hudson. “There are _more_ elves?” he asked.

Sherlock looked like he was about to scold John for the way his petty human brain worked when his gaze fell behind John’s shoulder and turned alert.

“Jim,” he uttered the name. 

***

“Right. So,” John said when everyone had stopped talking at the same time. “I’m an elf. Jim sodding Moriarty is an elf, too—which, by the way, supports my theory about the height. Lestrade is a reindeer. Mrs Hudson is the elves housekeeper, and you,” John said, pointing at Sherlock, voice dangerously soft, “are just your usual self.”

Sherlock locked his eyes with John in what seemed close to regret, but didn’t have the chance to say anything. The sound of exaggerated slow clapping filled the air. 

“Well done, Doctor Watson,” Moriarty’s voice was pitched at mock admiration. “I can see he’s just invaluable to you,” he told Sherlock. 

John’s hands balled up into fists.

“Do you have anything more illuminating to say?” Sherlock asked Moriarty. John hoped it was coldly. At least he thought it was coldly.

“As a matter of fact, I don’t,” Moriarty dragged. His eyes became impenetrable—well, more impenetrable—as they ran over his own skinny figure. “I find myself too preoccupied with the horror of wearing _this_.” He carefully held the corner of his garish belt buckle, then lifted his fingers to his eyes and regarded the glitter on them with disgust.

“In that case be quiet and let me work this out,” Sherlock said, fingers tapping on the fireplace’s mantel. John nodded and walked over to stand beside him, then caught sight of both of them in the mirror and pushed Sherlock into the leather chair. Sherlock looked up at him, startled. 

“I look ridiculous next to you,” John told him.

“And that’s new how?” Moriarty asked.

“Okay, listen,” Lestrade said from the door. “Have any of you tried to change anything?”

“Like what?” John asked.

“Like…Like taking off your clothes?”

“I don’t know about you, Sherlock,” Moriarty said, slithering across to stand right in Sherlock’s space, “but I get the feeling this is turning into a different kind of party.” He held Sherlock’s gaze with ambiguous intent. “Maybe you and I should find a place of our own to…think.”

John punched him before he even thought about it.

***

“Well, I can’t even remove the hat,” John informed Lestrade returning from his bedroom. They were back to discussing changing things. Sherlock was still using his laptop. Mrs Hudson was humming from the kitchen, undoubtedly daydreaming about cows, and Moriarty was standing by himself next to the window, holding his nose gingerly and batting his eyelashes at Sherlock every time Sherlock looked at him. John was trying not to count how many times that was.

“Have you tried?” Lestrade asked.

“Of course, I’ve bloody tried,” John replied irritably.

“My, my, the toughest elf of them all is having a temper tantrum,” Moriarty said.

“All right, that’s it!” John tilted his head dangerously. Then he remembered what he was wearing and deflated. “Either you shut up or for once in your life you put that sick brain of yours into some good use.”

“Or what? You’re going to pinch all my little bells?”

John punched him again.

***

“Supernatural,” Sherlock spoke from the sofa where he’d stretched out. The leather armchair was currently occupied by Moriarty’s unconscious form. Mrs Hudson had said everything had its limits and she was not having houseguests, even if they were uninvited, lying about on the floor—not when she hadn’t cleaned for four days.

John side-eyed Lestrade who seemed to have shuffled closer to the sofa so his majestic head was just above Sherlock’s crazy, albeit quite majestic one, too. John liked Greg but sniffing John’s best friend was where he drew the line at tolerating your mates’ quirks.

“Supernatural.” John repeated what Sherlock had said, while casually advancing closer to the sofa. 

“Yes, supernatural.”

John hesitated, before venturing a guess. “The Carver Edlund books?” 

Sherlock’s brow wrinkled. “What?”

“ _Supernatural_ , by Carver Edlund. It’s a series of books about two brothers who hunt supernatural creatures. There’s quite a bit of drama actually—”

“And it’s all a freaking lie,” a gruff new voice said right behind him.

A stranger was scanning him from the front door and it wasn’t in a particularly friendly manner. He didn’t just sound gruff, although in all fairness there was no missing how good-looking he was. Great. John didn’t need the elf get up on his person to resent the newcomer a little.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“I’m agent…Bond,” the man replied, immediately convincing John he was a fraud. His eyes had gone to the sofa. From the same location John heard, “No, you’re not.” Sherlock had twisted to look at the stranger upside down. “You are one of the brothers from the books.”

“Oh, who are you? Colombo?” The stranger snapped.

“Who is Colombo?” Sherlock asked John.

“He’s ah…He’s a detective from a TV show,” John replied absent-mindedly, gazing at the newcomer. Was that…?

Well, the man _was_ very tall, just like John's favourite character. The eyes were direct, lively, yet guarded. John’s body began tingling, and not with the persistent urge to start wrapping things up and sticking gift tags on them that he’d been ignoring for a good hour. He took a step towards the stranger whose eyes took him in properly, lingering on the hat. A pair of finely shaped eyebrows crawled up his expressive face, but John wasn’t going to start taking offence now, not when he had in front of him…

“Sam?” He whispered. “Sam Winchester?”

The man opened his mouth with aplomb then shut it, crestfallen and unimpressed. “No, dude. Do I look like Yeti to you?”

“Sam doesn’t look like Yeti,” John corrected him, mentally correcting himself too. Sam Winchester didn’t look like a male model. “He’s just tall.” 

“Oh, who are you? Becky?” was Dean Winchester’s retort, for John had deduced if this wasn’t one brother, it had to be the other. 

“Who was Becky again?” he asked.

“Is it a compulsion?” Sherlock said. He’d sat up and was examining Dean with interest. “Comparing others to fictional characters? Or are you just incapable of original thought?” 

“Yeah, I wish Becky was fictional,” Dean grumbled. “She’s my brother’s number one fan.” He glowered at Sherlock and turned to Mrs Hudson. “Is that him?” 

Mrs Hudson fretted a little. “Yes.”

“Hang on,” John took a step back. “How do you two know each other?”

“I called him, John,” Mrs Hudson said. “I thought he might be able to help. We’ve known each other—”

“How?” John blinked, trying to process these rapid developments.

“Obviously they met in America, John,” Sherlock said sternly. “Can’t you hear his accent?”

Dean ignored him completely, eyes on John. John could swear he saw in his peripheral vision Sherlock’s chest deflating.

“I’m Dean Winchester,” Dean said, instantly pointing a threatening finger at John. “I don’t want to hear about those books and you are not going to mention this to anyone. Are we clear?” He strode to the centre of the room, his step quite confident.

“Yeah.” John cleared his throat and managed a second, much less intimidated, “Yes.” He walked over to Dean. “Where’s Sam?” 

Sherlock stood up abruptly, frowning at John.

“That’s it?” Dean spread his arms, incredulous. “You meet the Winchesters, first thing you ask is ‘Where’s Sam’?”

John scratched his head awkwardly, then winced at the gentle chime one of his bells produced. 

“Sam’s taking the stairs,” Dean was saying meanwhile. Something shifty floated over his face.

There was the sound of heavy, wet breathing coming from the landing outside the front door. Lestrade who’d trotted off to the window trying in vain to look less conspicuous returned to the front door area and presented them all with his rump, equally majestic, as he peered out. 

“You’re doing all right, mate?” he asked in a sympathetic tone. That he should preserve his voice or be able to speak at all seemed like a particular perversion to John. 

“Yeah, thanks,” someone said from outside, voice quiet, low and pleasant, despite being considerably short of breath. “Nice antlers.”

John backed up a little and stretched his neck to see who it was, just as Lestrade was saying, “You too.”

A moose was standing at their landing, his head proud and his hair shiny and gorgeous even under the dim light. His eyes glistened, soulful, as they met John’s. 

“Hi,” the moose said. John felt it rather than saw it—a tentative smile. “I’m Sam.”

“All right,” Dean spoke behind John. “Anyone here been eating sweets all the time?” 

***

Sherlock and Dean got on with solving the little situation John and the rest had found themselves in, while John tried to navigate Sam’s entry into their flat. Lestrade wanted to help, but John shooed him away—politely, he hoped, since Greg was still his friend and at present probably weighed some hundred pounds more than John did. 

“You can go and stir him from the…” Lestrade had said, then looked down, hoof awkwardly knocking on the floor. “From the rear,” he continued, producing an unbecoming for his state bleating cough. “While I stand at the front and tell you which way to go.”

“And have the two of you accidentally entangle your antlers?” John shook his head. “No, thanks.”

“I don’t need stirring,” Sam said. His head bowed demurely and he avoided everyone’s eyes. “I don’t like people touching my…er…the area at the back.”

A light bulb went on in John’s head. “Oh, that’s right! You were the Impala once!” It was surprising how much he remembered from those books.

“What’s the Impala?” Lestrade asked.

“It’s our car,” Sam said. 

Lestrade took a step back. “You were a car?” John thought it’d been a while since Lestrade had last looked himself in the mirror to be passing judgement so lightly, but that was secondary to his revelation. 

“A Trickster!” He exclaimed. “He turned you into a car! So this is a Trickster! Sherlock!”

Sherlock was busy standing nose to nose with Dean Winchester and giving him a run for his money on the looks front. That was the striking looks and the sarcastic ones, John noted, quietly disturbed. Sherlock then added insult to injury by waving John off while animatedly saying to Dean something that ended on, “…don’t know how I’ve managed to live without you!” 

“Well, I asked Santa for a busty barmaid,” Dean retorted, “and got you instead, but there you go!” He had the kind of stance that suggested he’d be proficient in swaggering. “And now Sammy’s got antlers so big we can freaking decorate them with tinsel!”

“Sherlock, it’s a Trickster,” John insisted. He slid closer. He remembered Dean had a temper. There was no telling whether it hadn’t reached new heights where driving a fist into the faces of arrogant British consulting detectives was now par for the course.

“We know, John,” was Sherlock’s response. There was some eye rolling with the words that John did not appreciate. Fine then, John would just stay in the corner with the cloven-hoofed ones and leave Sherlock alone with his ‘we’ and his equal height to Dean’s. Maybe they could go and solve supernatural crimes together and be flatmates, see if John cared. 

He glanced at Sam surreptitiously. The height difference would be even more pronounced, but at least John wouldn’t be treated like a third wheel.

“We are trying to figure out who it is,” Dean said, coming over and carefully tilting his brother’s head then guiding him forward until Sam was finally inside the flat. “Tricksters eat all kinds of sugary things, have you noticed anyone going nuts about cakes and lollies lately?”

“Oh, my…” James Moriarty’s high-pitched voice gave Dean a start. Colour was returning rapidly to Moriarty’s face, as his eyes wandered over Sam’s impressive body. The bell ringing produced by his moving feet seemed leering as Moriarty progressed across the room. Dean tensed up.

“Aren’t you just…big!” Moriarty breathed out appreciatively, then made to look under Sam. 

Dean punched him in the face.

***

“Tricksters are supernatural creatures,” Sam was explaining to Lestrade, “who create havoc and conflict. Kind of nasty actually; their mischief could end pretty bad.”

“As in someone dead?” Lestrade asked and got a nod from Sam. The two of them were using their front legs to roll Moriarty’s prostrate form out of the way. John congratulated himself for his good taste in friends and literary characters. Those two had a kind streak in them even at times of misfortune. If it’d been him, he’d have trampled the bastard until the evil mastermind of the century was a green smudge on their living room floor. 

“What would a Trickster want from us?” Lestrade asked.

“He probably pissed off one of them,” Dean said eying Sherlock. “If it’s not actually him,” he added. John didn’t know whether Dean was serious so he slid closer to Sherlock again. Dean meanwhile went on talking to his brother, still about Sherlock. “He fits the bill: he thinks he’s charming and better than everyone...Right, Sammy?”

“If you didn’t lose brain cells with alarming speed while trying to be clever,” Sherlock told him with less spite than John expected, “you might notice the large biscuit by my laptop that hasn’t even been touched. And I don’t think I’m charming.”

“Yeah, you do,” said John, Dean and Lestrade in unison.

“All I’m noticing,” Dean continued alone, “apart from your stinking attitude,” he detoured, “is that you ain’t even wearing a Christmas hat. We come in here, we got the baking fairy, two friggin’ elves and Rudolph. Care to say why you’re looking like a real boy?”

“It’s not him,” John said, while Sherlock was honest to God letting his lips part in stunned silence at Dean’s comment.

“Dude, I don’t really think it’s him,” Dean said dismissively. “I’m just yanking his chain. Tricksters are smart. A Trickster wouldn’t stand out; he’d try to camouflage himself.” He examined Sherlock a little too thoroughly in John’s opinion. “Looking like a stick insect doesn’t count.”

“Now, now, Dean,” Mrs Hudson said from under the kitchen portal. “Play nicely.” She had a monstrous size bowl filled with biscuits emitting delicious smell. It grew stronger as Mrs Hudson went around the room offering her baked wonders. Dean stuffed a whole one into his mouth, grabbing three more. Sam and Greg helped themselves directly from the bowl. Sherlock just brushed Mrs Hudson off, then turned emphatic ‘See?’ eyebrows to Dean, who told him he was weird. 

“Okay,” Greg said. “Why are the biscuits so important again?”

“It’s not just cookies,” Sam said. His nose was twitching. “It’s candy, all kinds. It’s part of Trickster lore.”

“Yes, they have a sweet tooth,” John recalled out loud. Sam nodded his large head in agreement and lifted his front right leg. His nose was still twitching and it looked like Sam was contemplating ways to scratch it with his hoof. John stepped up to him, distractedly reaching a helpful hand and brushing a biggish crumb off Sam’s muffle. At Sam’s, “Thanks,” John petted him spontaneously.

“Whoa,” Dean said, appalled. “Dude!”

“Oh, relax,” Sherlock dragged. “He’s not going to straddle your brother and toddle off to the shops.”

“Now you know what he’s going to do?” Dean was like a bickering pro. “Sorry, didn’t know we were coming to visit a psychic wonder.”

“Dean,” Sam said quickly. “Let’s just…Let’s just figure this out, okay?” He gave his brother the most epic pleading eyes in existence. “My antlers are kind of heavy.”

“Hear, hear,” Greg said with feeling. His rump bumped against Sam’s in solidarity. Dean shot him a suspicious look, but then his face transformed into earnestness. “Yeah, okay, Sammy. But he is being a snarky bitch,” Dean scowled at Sherlock, “and isn’t helping.” 

John was saved the prolonged discomfort at Sherlock’s inordinately pleased look by the sound of feet coming up the stairs.

***

It all happened so fast. One moment there was Mycroft Holmes, raising just one eyebrow at the _tableau_ in Baker Street’s living room—evidently two magnificent woodland creatures, two not-so-magnificent elves, one of whom unconscious on the floor, and a complete stranger with a militaristic expression and a hand diving inside his jacket to grab hold of what had to be some vicious weaponry of choice did not merit two eyebrows up. 

The next moment Dean was launching himself at Mycroft with cries of, “What do you want, you son of a bitch?” Sherlock leapt like a frog in front of John’s dismayed eyes—possibly his fly-catching mouth too—managing to pry Dean off Mycroft. 

“I beg your pardon,” Mycroft told Dean icily. Dean was panting in Sherlock’s restraining arms. John was momentarily distracted by the fine cut of Sherlock’s jacket, especially around his biceps.

“This is my brother,” Sherlock had told Dean upon grabbing him. He now continued, “Mycroft Holmes. Always scoffing down cakes and chocolate around Christmas, aren’t we, Mycroft? They do say sugar can kill you. In this case, it almost did.”

Only now did John notice the light dusting of sugar powder on Mycroft’s upper lip and chin— _Turkish Delight?_ —as well as the selection of chocolate boxes occupying both his hands.

“These are gifts for your household, Sherlock,” Mycroft said with reproach, before walking with as much dignity as a man just attacked by a homicidal stranger could muster—in Mycroft’s case a lot—to place the boxes on the table. 

“Um, Mycroft…” Lestrade said. He’d retreated furthest into the corner by the door, as if attempting to hide his powerfully built backside.

Mycroft had started opening the top box of chocolates. His fingers stilled. He looked over his shoulder with some stiffness, taking the measure of both the reindeer and the moose for under three seconds each, before walking over to Lestrade.

“Oh, Gregory,” he said. Lestrade’s head hung, depressed.

“Why do you call him Gregory?” Sherlock asked, puzzled. “His name is Rudolph.”

“Sherlock.” Mrs Hudson had materialized back in their midst and now tutted. “That’s not very nice.”

Sherlock looked oddly adorable in his deepening confusion. “Why isn’t it nice? I’m just calling him by his name.”

“That’s not my name,” Lestrade said with some irritation, but the wind had gone out of its sails. 

“Yes, it is,” Sherlock insisted, pointing at Dean with his chin. “He called you that.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Dude, I got no idea what his name is. I was calling him that because of the popular myth.”

Sherlock pulled his head back, eyebrows mashing together in perplexity.

“Rudolph the reindeer?” Dean said. When there was no clarity on Sherlock’s face, he looked around, a little self-conscious, then hummed, ‘Rudolph the red nose reindeer…’ 

Sherlock’s expression shifted to questioning Dean’s mental faculties.

“He doesn’t get most cultural references,” John hurried to say. 

Dean’s eyes grew twice their size. “Seriously?”

“Yeah.” John didn’t mean to sound so defensive.

Dean contemplated Sherlock. “Are you an angel of the Lord? A very arrogant, smartass angel of the Lord? They’re clueless.”

“My brother is very human, Mr Winchester,” Mycroft said, while Sherlock cast his gaze around, quite thrown by the entire exchange. John filed the sight for future gloating references. 

“Now shall we get on with the program,” Mycroft continued. “What’s your theory?”

“Hold on,” Dean said. “How do you know us?” He was trying to drill holes in Mycroft skull with his gaze. Mycroft regarded him imperiously in lieu of replying.

“We’ve been trying to figure out who’s behind this,” Sam said, evidently in a hurry to get on with it. John knew how he felt. “We think it’s a Trickster,” Sam continued. “That’s a demi-god—”

“—who gets off on mischief,” Dean took over, “but that’s not where he stops. He usually leaves a nice body count behind.”

“And you assumed I was that creature?” Mycroft said.

Sam and Dean exchanged a look. “No offence,” Sam said. “But Tricksters have this strange metabolism, they’ve got to eat sweet things all the time. You came in here with an armful of chocolate boxes so—”

“—you were asking for it,” Dean finished again.

Mycroft nodded, contemplating. “Have you got any other theories?” he asked.

“But why just some of us?” John asked, a little disgruntled. 

Everyone looked at him, then went on gazing, their silence loaded. John was about to get even more disgruntled, when his eyes fell on his hands. 

His gift wrapping hands. He stared at the chocolate boxes Mycroft had brought. All of them bar one were ready to be put under the Christmas tree. Immaculate work, and he’d even found little festive bows to stick to them. 

John stepped away from the table in haste. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

“It’s okay, man,” Sam’s voice reached him through the white noise in his ears. 

“No, it’s not okay!” John exploded. “Why me? Why you? Why not them?” The motion of his hand indicating at Sherlock, Dean and Mycroft might have been jerky. “What the fuck have I done to this, this…” he was almost choking on his anger. 

“Trickster,” Sherlock told him slowly, concern written on his face.

“Yes, thank you bloody much!” John shouted. He went to war, dammit. He was a soldier.

Dean squinted at Sherlock. “He’s right. I still don’t know how you got away, while your two roommates didn’t.”

“Oh no!” John said. “No, no. That,” he pointed at Moriarty, eyes boring into Dean’s emphatically, “is not his flatmate.”

“Who is it, then?” Dean asked.

“My arch nemesis,” Sherlock responded. John didn’t think the dramatic pause for effect was necessary.

“I thought I was your arch nemesis,” Mycroft said. He’d drifted to the table from where he’d acquired the last unwrapped box of chocolates and was now having Lestrade quite literally eat out of his hand.

“Your brother is your arch nemesis?” Dean asked Sherlock in a tone that suggested he was clearly judging his life choices. 

“Not anymore,” Sherlock said, not looking even a little bit uncomfortable. “It’s Jim now.” 

Sam moved forward towards Moriarty’s crumpled body and bumped heavily against the coffee table. A cup smashed on the floor; Sam looked guiltily at Mrs Hudson who appeared from the kitchen—John couldn’t even tell when she’d retreated back there—a dishcloth in her hands.

“Sorry,” Sam said. “I forgot that I was…Um.”

“It’s quite all right, dear.” Mrs Hudson picked up the broken pieces of china in one hand, making huffing noises of discomfort when she straightened up, her empty hand propping her hip. “None of us is taking this in our stride.” She shook her head. “I’ve run out of surfaces to put biscuits. They get baked in less than a minute.” She left the room talking quietly. “I don’t want to think about the electricity bill. I’m not going to charge you for it, boys…”

John bowed his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Can you, please, sort this out? Please?” He lifted his eyes to find everyone’s attention on him again, probably expecting clarification who he was addressing. His gaze went to Sherlock. John hoped he wasn’t humiliating himself further by looking worshipful. “Sherlock. Can you please work this out?”

Sherlock’s face turned clear as a bright winter morning. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, John.” He snapped his fingers at Dean. “You. I need you to focus and answer some questions.”

***

“You could have said that you had the real Moriarty under lock and key,” Lestrade told Mycroft accusingly. “You must have known as soon as you walked in. That it was him. The Trickster or whatever he’s called. I’m getting a headache.”

“You can rub your head now,” John pointed out the silver lining. His gaze dropped lovingly to his Christmas jumper. He didn’t care that everyone had suggested, verbally or through the creative use of body language, that his elfish attire was preferable. He’d never felt so attached to his own clothes.

Mycroft sighed at Lestrade’s words. He was standing by the fireplace and Greg was sitting with Mrs Hudson at the table. John and Sherlock were in their respective armchairs, while the two Winchesters occupied the sofa. Sam was just as tall as the books described him, but a lot more handsome in person, both than his written- and his moose self. The moment he’d transformed back into human John had shaken his hand and told him it was an honour to meet him. Sherlock had sulked for at least three minutes afterwards.

“Gregory, I was physically assaulted as soon as I walked in,” Mycroft said. “Then it became immediately obvious to me that my brother had found an even larger audience to…dazzle.” Sherlock bristled. Mycroft just shrugged, continuing, “The Trickster wasn’t dangerous. I thought it would be a good mental exercise for Sherlock.” Mycroft bowed a little ceremoniously in the direction of the sofa. “If he’s about to start solving supernatural cases.”

“I’m not about to start solving supernatural cases!” Sherlock said.

“He’s not about to start solving supernatural cases!” Dean confirmed.

Mycroft hummed meditatively. John didn’t like it. “My mistake,” Mycroft said. 

“Hang on,” John told Sherlock. “I still don’t get why only some of us got it. There was nothing wrong with you and Mycroft, or Dean.”

“Not yet,” Sherlock said, looking furtive. “Right,” he clapped his hands, “I think that’s about—”

“Not so fast, sunshine,” Dean cut in. “Spill. What do you mean ‘not yet’?”

Sherlock wriggled in his seat, eyes firmly fixed on his hands in his lap. “Dude?” Dean prompted, voice a tad nervous.

“I was feeling an urge to hang mistletoe above the doors,” Sherlock muttered. John goggled at him. “The doors? The doors. As in plural.”

“Well, there are many of you…” Sherlock replied, cross. John was still pondering the implications of his words, when Mycroft spoke. He looked supremely skittish, snapping John’s attention to the rare sight. “I had started getting…disproportionately…larger…in my midriff,” he said. He shot a warning glance at Sherlock, nipping any mocking in the bud—for now only, John was sure—then quickly straightened up a few items on the mantel, while adding with great speed, “And I’ve had to shave three times today. Rapidly greying beard…”

“You were turning into Santa Claus?” Lestrade said and began laughing. He quickly sobered up under Mycroft’s withering gaze. “You were going to sort it out,” he told him.

“I,” Mycroft spoke with restored hauteur, “wouldn’t have to. Thank goodness.”

“What about you?” Sam asked his brother. Dean’s hand flew to the back of his head where he frisked his hair. “What about me nothing,” he told Sam avoiding his eyes.

“Come on, Dean.” Sam nudged his knee against Dean’s. “I was a moose; you’ve got to give me something, man.”

“Don’t know what to tell you, Sammy. I was not feeling any different.”

“Dean…” The pleading eyes were back on Sam Winchester’s face and if it was even possible, they were harder to resist.

Dean burst out. “I was knitting festive stockings, okay? Remember when I took that long bathroom break? I made two! There are six balls of red wool in that rented car’s trunk. Thank God, it’s not my Baby.” Dean shook his head, mortified.

“He calls his car ‘Baby’,” John clarified for the rest of the audience after a little pause, when it became obvious Sam was too busy having his face split up by what Americans called ‘a shit-eating’ grin. His dimples were so pronounced that John experienced a little bout of giddiness.

“Are we to expect minutiae on the heroic Winchesters all the time now?” Sherlock asked John, voice like spiteful little jingling bells. 

“Right, how about I bring us some of those biscuits?” Mrs Hudson said, getting up. “And Sherlock can play the violin? We can all have a little Christmas party. What do you say, Sherlock?”

“I can hardly contain my cheer,” Sherlock told her with a fake beatific smile.

A labored grunt floated from the direction of the sofa. “Time to open the whiskey,” Dean Winchester said.

**Author's Note:**

> ♥ Happy and healthy 2015! ♥


End file.
